


Saved

by AutisticWriter



Series: Mental Illness Headcanons [4]
Category: The Fast Show
Genre: Angst, Blood, Crying, Cutting, Dark, Depression, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Friendship, Gay Male Character, Gen, Headcanon, Hurt/Comfort, Loneliness, Medication, Mental Health Issues, One Shot, Queer Character, Queer Themes, Rated for Gore, Scars, Self-Harm, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide Attempt, Swearing, Trans Male Character, Transphobia, Vomiting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-23
Updated: 2016-09-23
Packaged: 2018-08-16 21:09:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,959
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8117680
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AutisticWriter/pseuds/AutisticWriter
Summary: Billy Bleach has the shock of his life when he finds Archie, the local pub bore, about to commit suicide in the pub toilets. When he intervenes, he finds out a lot more about Archie than he ever thought he would, and manages to become the lonely old bloke’s only friend.





	

When Billy went into the toilets to have a piss, he never expected to see what he saw. He found a man stood in front of the mirror, holding a cutthroat razor against his neck. Blood was oozing from deep cuts on both of his forearms, and he was pressing the razor so hard against his neck that it had broken the skin, blood dribbling down his tie. He was crying, tears streaming down his cheeks and sobbing more hysterically than Billy had ever heard a man cry, and there was no doubt in Billy’s mind what he was about to do.

“Bloody hell, mate, what’re you doing?!” He yelled, running forwards.

He wrenched the razor from the bloke’s hand and threw it across the toilets; it clattered against the wall, leaving a bloody mark on the red on the white tiles. His heart was pounding. He felt very, very sick.

“What the fuck, mate?” He cried, flinging his arms up in the air, staring at this man who had literally just been seconds away from cutting his neck open.

The man slumped against the sinks like he didn’t have the strength to stand up, hanging his head, blood dripping into a basin, sobbing. He looked drained and weak, like he had no energy. His cheeks were flushed, but the rest of his face was pale and sweaty. In a word, he looked awful.

“I didn’t mean to, I didn’t mean to,” he was crying, and Billy wasn’t sure he was even talking to him.

Billy recognised him as Archie, the old man who would approach people in the pub and had somehow done the same job as the person he was talking to. Billy often watched him; it was quite funny to watch the people he was talking to get more and more bored. Although, he did feel a bit bad for Archie, because it was obvious that the old bloke was just lonely. Considering what he had just tried to do, he must have been extremely lonely.

Billy watched his knees wobble, and knew it was only a matter of time before Archie fell over. He was feeling pretty freaked out himself, but he knew he had to stay calm to help Archie.

“Come here, mate,” he said softly, grabbing Archie’s upper arm and easing him onto the floor next to the sink.

Archie didn’t resist; he was disturbingly passive. He flopped his head back against the wall, holding his bleeding arms out in front of him, his eyes half closed and leaking tears. Billy crouched down in front of him, partially obscuring Archie from the view of anyone who might come through the door.

“’M sorry,” Archie mumbled, and Billy still wasn’t sure who he was talking to.

“It’s all right,” he said, wishing he knew how to properly deal with this sort of thing.

He leaned closer to Archie’s sore arms, and had a look at the cuts. They didn’t look as deep as he’d first thought, but they were bleeding profusely (from his experience with shaving his face, razor cuts bled much more than other types of cuts, even when they weren’t very deep), blood running down his hands and dripping onto the floor.

“Do you think you need to get stitches?” He asked, wondering if he should call an ambulance.

“No, no. It’s not that bad,” Archie said a little too quickly, not sounding convincing at all, and he stuck the wound on his arm into his mouth and tried to lick the blood away. But, as there was more blood than he thought, he simply gagged and suddenly threw up down his shirt.

“Jesus, mate,” Billy said softly. He didn’t know what else to say.

Archie just sat there with stomach acid all over his lips, sobbing pitifully, staring at Billy.

“Sorry,” he whispered. Even though the smell of puke was making Billy feel really sick, he forced himself to smile, and gave Archie’s shoulder a comforting pat.

Billy helped him to unbutton his shirt and take the vomit and blood soaked thing off, leaving Archie naked from the waist up. As he looked at Archie, Billy saw strange scars under his nipples, long, thin, upwards-curved scars that looked like he had been cut with something really weird. He also saw more scars on Archie’s upper left arm; there were dozens on small, straight scars, some almost faded, others very red against his pale skin. He ripped the sleeves off of the soiled shirt and wrapped one around each of Archie’s bleeding wrists, hoping the pressure might stop the bleeding. Then he pressed a wad of toilet roll against the small cut on Archie’s neck.

“Sorry,” Archie sobbed. “I wasn’t going to . . . the words of Fr-Frank . . . they should’ve stopped me . . . but then I started . . . cutting . . . couldn’t stop . . . blood . . .”

Billy put his arm around Archie and listened as the older man shook with sobs, not sure what Archie was actually talking about, but deciding that it didn’t really matter. He didn’t care that someone might come in and see them there, because saving a life was more important than his reputation.

“I’m sorry,” Archie kept mumbling through his tears. “’M so s-sorry.”

And Billy had absolutely no idea what to say to calm him down.

\---

After a while, the bleeding had almost stopped. Billy tried to clean up the blood on the floor and the sinks, and he did a reasonably good job with just toilet paper, he thought. He pulled his jumper off and gave it to Archie, leaving himself with just his short sleeved shirt, but he didn’t mind. The jumper was far too big for Archie, but it covered up his cuts nicely, even if the thick fabric bandages did cause strange bulges around his wrists.

“Thanks,” Archie said weakly. He wasn’t crying any more, but his eyes were very red and puffy in his pale face.

“It’s nothing, mate,” Billy smiled.

“No, really, thank you,” Archie insisted, his voice thickening. He grabbed hold of Billy’s wrist and looked straight at his eyes. “You saved my l-life.”

Billy smiled weakly, not knowing what to say to that. It was true, of course, but it was really much more of a case of being in the right place at the right time. He tried not to think about what could have happened if he’d only been a few seconds later.

Taking Archie’s arm, Billy led him back into the pub. Everyone looked at them, and Billy was certain everyone now knew what had happened; it was impossible to keep anything private in a pub. But no one came over to them, and for that he was very grateful. Archie kept his head down, and didn’t look up even when they sat down at a table in the corner. He kept touching his neck, and Billy had a feeling that he was wishing for the razor Billy had dumped in the bin.

“Do you want a drink, mate?” Billy asked.

Archie, still looking at the table, shrugged his shoulders. It must have jarred his sore neck, because he winced.

“Archie?”

“No thanks,” Archie muttered. “Still feel a bit sick.”

Billy smiled in understanding. He looked over Archie’s shoulder, and saw several people staring at them, some looking sympathetic, others sneering. Billy tried to ignore them, and turned back to Archie.

“Archie?” He said again. “Would you like to talk about anything?”

“Like what?” Archie said shakily.

“I don’t know,” he said. “Maybe you’d like to talk about what made you want to . . .”

This was clearly the wrong thing to say. Archie’s face crumpled, and he looked like he was going to break down again, his eyes filling with tears. He took in a shuddering breath, and finally made eye contact with Billy with his sore, shining eyes.

“I’ve th-thought about it a lot,” he said, his voice thickening. He wiped at his damp eyes with the back of his hand. “Suicide. B-but, usually, the words of Fr-Frank keep coming back to me, but . . .”

Archie trailed off, swallowing hard. Billy knew he was referring to Frank Sinatra; anyone who had spent more than thirty seconds talking to Archie knew he was obsessed with Frank Sinatra; he often started singing Sinatra songs at the people he was talking to. Billy used to find it funny, but, now he knew how much those songs helped Archie, it made him want to cry instead.

Archie breathed in deeply again. His eyes were still full of tears.

“But,” he continued, his voice weak, “this time, the words d-didn’t come. I just f-felt this overwhelming desire to d-die, and I’d b-bought a razor when I went out shopping earlier and I t-took it into the toilets and when I w-went to the t-toilets I . . .”

Tears spilled down Archie’s cheeks; he hurriedly wiped them away. Billy knew exactly what happened next in Archie’s story: he cut his arms open and was about to slit his throat when Billy stopped him.

“But why didn’t you tell anyone you felt like . . . doing that?” Billy asked, trying to get the image of Archie cutting his throat out of his head, because it was making him feel sick.

“I don’t have no one to talk to,” Archie muttered. He moved his hands, and Billy caught a glimpse of the thick fabric ‘bandages’ around his wrists.

“Really?” Billy asked.

Archie nodded, smiling sadly.

“I’m just a lonely person,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck. “All my fishing gear was nicked, so I can’t do that no more (not that I’d want to, ‘cause Stan’s being a bastard for some reason, probably ‘cause I’m better at fishing them him, but there you go), and no one ever wants to talk to me when I come down here every night.”

Billy smiled sympathetically, watching Archie blink back tears.

“Don’t you have any friends?”

Archie looked at him, his bottom lip twitching. He shook his head and sighed.

“No, all my friends I had when I was younger left me when . . .” Archie gulped, trembling as though he was about to say something devastating. “. . . when I told them I w-was trans.”

Even though part of him wanted to yell something like ‘Really?!’, Billy forced himself to give a calm reaction, and smiled warmly at Archie.

“You’re trans?”

Archie nodded, smiling slightly, obviously calmed by his reaction. “I was thirty when I realised it, and forty when I started hormones and surgery and stuff.”

“So, those scars on your chest . . .?” Billy said, understanding now.

“Yeah. Mastectomy scars.”

Billy nodded. “But why did they all leave you?”

“Because they all thought I was weird and sick in the head.” Archie said it flatly, but there were tears in his eyes again.

“But that was like thirty years ago, mate,” Billy said, trying to smile reassuringly. “No one’s like that anymore. People are so much more accepting now.”

Archie finally made eye contact. When he opened his mouth, his stained teeth made his face look even paler. “So you’re not an exception? You mean most people are like you?”

“Well, some people are bigots, but, yeah, most people aren’t fazed anymore.”

Archie smiled, and it looked like a genuine smile to Billy.

Something occurred to Billy, and, even though he knew it probably wasn’t the best thing to say to Archie right now, his curiosity got the better of him.

“Archie?” He asked. “If you’re trans, which surely means you don’t need to shave your face, why’d you have a razor on you?”

Archie looked at him. He looked incredibly embarrassed. “Can’t we t-talk ‘bout something else?”

Sensing that Archie was hiding something important, Billy carried on asking questions, determined to get an answer.

“No, I need to know . . .”

After a couple of minutes of being constantly questioned, Archie finally seemed to realise that he wasn’t going to win. Taking a deep breath, he looked down at the table and mumbled, “Might’ve b-been using it to . . . cut m’self.”

“That’s what those scars on your upper arm were!” Billy cried, feeling a bit sick. “Fucking hell, mate.”

Archie looked so ashamed. Billy patted his shoulder, surprised to find his hand shaking.

“Sorry,” Billy said. “I didn’t mean it to sound like that. I was just shocked.”

“I don’t do it so much no more, but, yeah . . .”Archie trailed off, not seeming to know what to say.

Trying to change the subject, Billy said, “Well, you’re friends’re dicks, but what about your family.”

Billy didn’t expect Archie to answer, especially without breaking down first, but to his amazement, Archie started to speak.

“I had a daughter,” Archie said flatly, as though speaking about it matter-of-factly was the only way he could get the words out without crying, “before I transitioned. Me and my husband at the time had a daughter. She was ten when I came out, and she was as freaked out as my husband. She was actually scared of me. He got custody when we got divorced, and I didn’t see her again. I thought that, maybe, once she was eighteen, she might’ve tried to get in contact, but she never did.”

Archie trailed off, and a couple of tears dribbled down his cheeks.

“It’s all right, mate,” Billy said, giving his shoulder a pat. He felt awful. Archie really had had a crappy life. No wonder he always pretended he’d had a different life when he spoke to other people.

“Sorry,” Archie said, wiping at his eyes. “I don’t think I’ve ever cried so much in front of someone.”

“It doesn’t matter, really,” Billy said. “So, are you all alone?”

Archie nodded, still wiping his eyes. “Why else d’you think I’m at this bloody pub all evening? It’s the only way I get to talk to people.”

Billy smiled sadly.

“My day is literally coming to the bloody pub the moment it opens and then sitting in here until it closes. I never get to talk to no one for more than five minutes; they get bored with me and tell me to fuck off. I think I even tried to talk to you once, didn’t I?”

Billy nodded, remembering what Archie was talking about. He had first met Archie on his first night in the pub, which he had decided to visit a couple of days after moving to their town. He had sat down alone with a pint and watched some crap (not football, unfortunately) on the telly, when Archie had approached his table and sat down. Archie asked him about his football shirt and claimed that he had been a footballer himself when he was younger, a comment that made Billy raise his eyebrows. But, soon, he was rambling about fishing and Frank Sinatra, and Billy found him so boring that he sought to avoid him every time he saw Archie again.

“Yeah, and sorry for ignoring you, mate,” Billy said.

Archie smiled, but then the smile slid from his face.

“What is it?” Billy asked.

Archie shrugged again, wincing. “Was just thinking about what I said to you. You know, I haven’t always been alone. About ten years ago, I plucked up the courage to go to one of those speed dating things for gay blokes – ‘cause I was attracted to men before I transitioned, and I still am now, see? – and it kind of worked. I dated this bloke for three weeks, but he went off me really quick when he found out I’m not, in his words, ‘a real man’.”

Billy looked at him; Archie was trembling. But it looked like he was angry this time, not sad.

“He said I wasn’t really a man, that he wasn’t attracted to women, especially not ‘fucking trannies’, and he fucked off, but not before he whacked me round the face.”

Billy’s eyes widened. “What?!”

Archie nodded, wincing, his neck obviously hurting. Billy couldn’t believe it; that story was so awful. Now Archie looked sad again; his eyes were shining once again.

“I know. So, yeah, I think you can see why I don’t have a partner now.” Archie looked up at Billy. “I scared to,” he said, sounding like he hated himself for being scared.

But Billy smiled sympathetically, and patted Archie’s shoulder again, still reeling from what Archie had told him.

“I don’t blame you mate,” he said, “I would’ve been scared too.”

And Archie smiled like he believed him.

They dissolved into silence; Billy sipped his beer, for once not really wanting it. Archie just stared down at his hands; Billy could hear his heavy breaths. And then something occurred to him, and he asked the question just to break the silence.

“Archie?” Billy asked.

Archie looked up from staring at the blood under his fingernails. “Yeah.”

“Are you on antidepressants?”

Archie shook his head. “’Ve been diagnosed with depression,” he mumbled, “b-but I’ve not been on meds. My doctor won’t give ‘em to me.”

“Why?” Billy said, frowning.

“Said I weren’t severe enough.”

Billy almost laughed. “But . . . that doesn’t make sense. You’re fucking suicidal.”

Archie smiled weakly. “That’s why I fucking hate doctors.”

“I don’t blame you, mate.”

\---

An hour or so later, Archie was telling Billy all about the life of Frank Sinatra, part of a plan of Billy’s to calm him down, when Billy noticed his friends entering the pub. They waved at him, and he waved back, even though he didn’t really want to talk to them. Right now, he was just focused on Archie.

“Hey, Billy!” Dave yelled, rushing across the pub towards him. Billy groaned.

Clive and Ed raised their eyebrows at Dave’s back and walked at a normal pace towards Billy, smiling at him and casting puzzled glances at Archie.

“Who’s this?” Dave asked when he reached their table, looking at Archie, who was staring down at the table, his jaw clenched.

Billy looked at them, and said, somewhat awkwardly, “This is Archie, my . . . friend. We’ve been having a chat.”

Billy saw Archie smile as he called him his friend.

“Why’s he wearing your jumper?” Ed asked, grinning in a way that suggested he thought Billy and Archie were a couple or something.

“I was cold,” Archie said flatly, thankfully stopping Billy from having to think up an answer. “I’m not feeling well. He gave it to me to warm me up.”

“I . . . see,” Ed said, looking totally confused.

“Listen, guys,” Billy said. “I’m kind of not in the mood for a drinking game tonight. Can we meet up tomorrow instead?”

None of them looked impressed, but they all buggered off to the other side of the pub. Archie smiled gratefully at Billy.

“Cheers, mate,” he said.

Billy shrugged. “No problem, mate. I wasn’t in the mood to see them either.”

\---

Billy didn’t see Archie for three days, and, by the third day, he was starting to get a bit worried. But, to his relief, when he arrived at the pub after work, he saw Archie sat at one of the tables in the corner. He was drinking a glass of what looked like lemonade, and was reading the newspaper with a refreshingly relaxed expression on his face.

Billy got a pint from the bar and then approached Archie. When he was right behind him, Billy put on a silly voice and said, “’Ello, ‘ello, ‘ello.”

Archie jumped and turned around in his seat, only to relax when he saw it was just Billy. And then he smiled at him.

“Hello, Billy,” he said, reaching out and shaking his hand.

Billy sat down opposite him, in the seat that could see the rest of the pub. He took a sip of his beer, and then looked at Archie.

“So, mate, how are you?” He asked.

Archie didn’t say anything, but a small smile crossed his face. Putting down his drink, he dug his hand into his pocket and pulled out a small cardboard box. Still smiling, he put it down on the table and pushed it towards Billy, who picked it up. He read the front; it was obviously medication, but he didn’t understand the name, and looked up at Archie, frowning in confusion.

“They’re antidepressants,” Archie whispered, obviously not wanting anyone to overhear him, and he quickly shoved the box back into his pocket.

Billy smiled at him, understanding now. He reached across the table and patted the smaller man’s shoulder.

“That’s great, mate,” he said. “When d’you get them?

Archie took a sip of his lemonade, and then said, “Yesterday. I went to the doctors the day after . . . you know. I showed her my cuts and stuff and she looked at my diagnosis, and she said I needed them and wrote me a prescription. Picked them up yesterday.”

“Brilliant,” Billy grinned. “How long’ll they take to kick in?”

“What, and make me feel better?” Archie asked. When Billy nodded, he looked like he was thinking hard before he added, “She said ‘bout three, four weeks.”

Billy frowned. “Is that normal? It don’t sound too good to me.”

Archie nodded, smiling like he agreed with him. “Yeah, I thought that too. But, yeah, they’re all like that.”

“So you don’t feel any better?” Billy asked.

Archie shook his head. “Not really. But . . .” he trailed off, and then he smiled, “I feel a lot better after what you did for me last night, mate.”

Billy stared at him; Archie was going red.

“Shut up, you soppy git,” he said, and Archie smiled, still looking embarrassed.

“If you’re wondering why I’m not having my usual pint,” Archie said, clearly attempting to change the subject. He seemed to read Billy’s mind, because he had been thinking about that. “My doctor said I can’t drink no alcohol on these meds.”

Billy pulled a face.

“I know,” Archie said, pulling a very similar face, and then smiling. “But it’s worth it, isn’t it?”

Billy had a feeling that Archie was leaving a few words out; if he had been saying that, he would have said, ‘But it’s worth it if it means I don’t try to kill myself.’

“Exactly, mate,” he said, and they both smiled.

\---

Archie was a lot better since he’d been put on the antidepressants, but Billy knew he wasn’t cured. He was still ill, and it was going to take a long time to recover, and the scars from his self harm and suicide attempt were probably never going to go away.

He was getting a lot better at confiding in Billy; in fact, Billy thought he was the only person Archie told about some things, apart from his doctor, of course. Some days, Archie would come into the pub, looking ashamed and rather ill, and would end up showing Billy a new cut under the table and muttering about how pathetic he was. That was hard for Billy to deal with, because part of him wanted to yell at Archie for hurting himself, but he knew he had to be supportive, and getting arsy wouldn’t achieve anything. If anything, it could make Archie worse. So, even though Archie was clearly getting better, there were setbacks, and that was hard for both of them to cope with.

Yet both Billy felt a lot better about his new friend’s future (because he and Archie were friends now, and he even spent time with his mates), because he knew Archie was seeing a doctor now, and his meds were working, and, even if all that failed, he was watching out for Archie every night in the pub, and checking up on him if something seemed to be wrong.

And it was great to know Archie appreciated his first friendship in thirty years, because it seemed obvious to Billy that he deserved some kindness in his depressing life.


End file.
